


Resolutions

by White Queen Writes (fhartz91)



Series: 31 Days of Ineffables [21]
Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: 31 Days of Ineffables Advent Calendar Challenge 2019 (Good Omens), Alternate Universe, Don't copy to another site, Established Relationship, Fluff, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), M/M, New Year's Resolutions, Post-Canon, Romance, another in a long list of reasons why we hate Gabriel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-10
Updated: 2020-01-10
Packaged: 2021-02-27 05:27:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,468
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22191787
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fhartz91/pseuds/White%20Queen%20Writes
Summary: While writing up his own resolutions, Crowley decides to helpfully write up a list for his husband.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Series: 31 Days of Ineffables [21]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1560190
Comments: 22
Kudos: 135





	Resolutions

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Drawlight's '31 Days of Ineffables' prompts 'glitter' and 'resolution'.

Walking through his shop, returning the daily herd of wandering books to their correct shelves, Aziraphale comes upon a sight he’s never witnessed.

Not in the flesh.

Not once.

And not one he ever thought he’d see no matter how long he lived.

Crowley writing – at Aziraphale’s desk, of all places.

Aziraphale has received notes from Crowley before: requests for an audience to discuss their Arrangement, reminders of the temptations Aziraphale agreed to perform, reports on the blessings Crowley had done, taunting letters during the times in between when Crowley simply felt like nagging him. Dirty limericks scrawled in a sloppy hand on oil-stained parchment would occasionally pop up out of nowhere in his pocket. Nowadays, notes from Crowley are mainly reminders to pick up more wine or chocolate biscuits when Aziraphale goes to the market.

Aziraphale has simply never seen Crowley in action.

He figured Crowley miracles up his memos the way he miracles up everything else. No need to actually set pen to paper when a simple snap of his fingers will do the trick.

Writing seems like too tedious a chore to be worthy of Crowley’s precious time.

Aziraphale smirks as he watches him, planted in his stiff, antique chair; the bottom half of his body rearranged in that liquid way Crowley sits, but still as if it’s the most natural thing in the world.

As if the desk is _his_ which, even though they’re married and pretty much sharing everything they own at this point, kind of irks Aziraphale. Yes, Aziraphale lives at Crowley’s flat, sleeps in his bed, and eats at his kitchen table, but he would never presume to grab the keys to his Bentley and take it for a spin.

That would be unforgiveable.

Aziraphale ranks this the same.

But he takes a deep breath in and lets it go. He’s never told Crowley his feelings on the matter, never expressed any emotional connection to his desk. Crowley probably sees it as simply another piece of furniture in this “residence” that they share and therefore had no reservations about sitting at it.

Which is kind of nice when Aziraphale comes to think about it.

Nevertheless, he’ll set him right about the whole situation later.

“What has you so busy, my dear?” he asks since it sounds kinder and less confrontational than, _‘What the Heaven are you doing at my desk?’_ A glance at the wall calendar adds a level to Aziraphale’s questioning. It’s December 31st. New Year’s Eve. “Working on your resolutions?”

“Sort of,” Crowley admits, the words coming out in a drawl as he says them over the sentence he’s writing. When he finishes, he picks up the page and hands it over.

Aziraphale takes it, curiosity piqued. “What is this?”

“I was writing a list of resolutions – just for fun, mind you. But then, something hit me, and I started this one … for _you_.”

Aziraphale’s left eyebrow crawls up his forehead towards his hairline as he reads. “You’ve written up a numbered list of my flaws?”

“ _No_. I’ve written up a numbered list of things you _think_ are your flaws, aided by a list _you_ apparently started, and based off some horrible Post-Its from Gabriel I found in your top drawer while searching for a pen.” Crowley growls the end of it, an angry hiss consuming his s’s, a lick of fire warming the yellow of his eyes.

“Yes, well, we’re overdue to have a talk about boundaries, my dear,” Aziraphale sniffs, scanning through the list numerous times, his posture becoming more rigid with every read thru. “I don’t see anywhere on this list where it says _fraternizing with a demon_.”

Crowley grins. “That’s because I know, deep down, you don’t see that as a _flaw_.”

Aziraphale rolls his eyes but he doesn’t contradict. “So, what am I supposed to do with this, hmm? Are these the things you want me to work on in the coming New Year?”

“Nope. Not a whit. I’m not asking you to change a thing about yourself.”

“Then what do I do with _this_?”

“You tear it into tiny pieces and set it on fire.”

Aziraphale frowns. “I may be wrong, but I don’t think that’s how New Year’s resolutions are supposed to work.”

“You do know New Year’s resolutions are shit, don’t you?” Crowley asks. “They’re completely unnecessary, especially considering that time itself is a made-up construct. I mean, you do remember when we had ten months in a year and not twelve, right?”

Aziraphale bounces his head left and right, agreeing more in spirit than in word.

“There’s nothing about the so-called beginning of the year that warrants beating yourself up over stuff you didn’t accomplish the last time the Earth revolved around the sun. Besides, I think Hastur came up with the concept.”

“It was Gabriel actually.”

Crowley nods. “Makes sense. Seems like the sort of plague his uptight, micro-managing ass would inflict upon the world.”

Aziraphale doesn’t comment, but silently, he agrees.

“So whaddya say? Tear it up? Rid yourself of the bullshit? You know you want to …” Crowley mimics ripping the page in the air in front of him on the off chance Aziraphale may not be familiar with the concept.

Aziraphale looks over the list, reading through the items he’d started writing, bleeding into the ones Crowley added.

Well, _Gabriel_ added. They were simply copied in Crowley’s handwriting.

_Un-angelic consumption of mortal food resulting in a slovenly appearance and an unseemly gut._

_Slovenly_. Aziraphale grimaces. So maybe he carries a few more pounds around the middle than most angels. But that doesn’t make him _slovenly_.

_Un-angelic obsession with mortal material possessions._

Aziraphale scoffs. _Hypocrite_.

_Un-angelic collection of defiled copies of the Holy Bible._

_Un-angelic consumption of alcohol to the point of drunkenness._

_Un-angelic this …_

_Un-angelic that …_

_Un-angelic bull pucky!_

And Aziraphale knows that somewhere in his mess of Post-Its, Gabriel commented on the company Aziraphale keeps, specifically mentioning his un-angelic association with an ex-anti-Christ, a witch, a medium, and a demon, but Crowley either didn’t find it or chose not to include it.

Every criticism Gabriel has about Aziraphale begins with the modifier _un-angelic_. Which means Heaven – or at the very least _Gabriel_ – considers Aziraphale _un-angelic_.

A pathetic excuse for an angel.

If Aziraphale were a demon, would this be seen as a list of _flaws_?

Would they matter at all?

Perhaps there wouldn’t even be a list if these are the only things “wrong” with him.

That’s definitely something Aziraphale may want to consider.

He glances at his husband grinning up at him with excitement. Every opportunity Aziraphale has to triumph over Heaven excites Crowley. But Aziraphale has paused so long, worry has started to settle in the corners of Crowley’s eyes. Aziraphale has been pushed down so far by Heaven, sometimes Crowley fears he won’t find the strength to stand again.

But he does.

Always has.

Stands back up and keeps on keeping on, still doing the things he loves, which makes it all the better.

Aziraphale doesn’t need Heaven and their insults.

He has Crowley’s love.

Aziraphale turns the list on its side, pinches it at the edge, and tears it down the middle.

Crowley whisper-chants, “Go! Go! Go! Go!” when Aziraphale slows down, encouraging him to continue.

And continue he does – tearing and turning and tearing and turning – until small squares of torn paper fill his cupped hands, the list unreadable except for a few individual words.

“There.” Crowley glows proudly at his husband. “How did that feel?”

“Good,” Aziraphale admits. “But this is going to feel better.” He tosses the scraps in the air. He doesn’t set them alight. He doesn’t want to trigger his sweet, supportive husband. Instead, with a snap, he turns them into glitter – harmless specks of gold and silver falling through the air and disintegrating where they touch.

“Beautiful,” Crowley says, slow clapping. He puts a gentle hand on his husband’s elbow and pulls him into his lap. “Positively gorgeous.”

“Thank you, my dear.” Aziraphale rests an arm on his demon’s shoulders. “I try my best. By the way, what did _your_ list of resolutions have on it?”

“Oh.” Crowley reaches for the breast pocket of his jacket, but before his hand slips inside, he miracles the page into his grasp. “Read it for yourself.”

Aziraphale snatches it, more eager to read Crowley’s list of perceived flaws than his own. Except … “Darling?”

“Yes?”

Aziraphale flips the page front to back. “There’s nothing on this.”

“Of course there’s nothing on it! Can’t much improve on perfection, can you?”

Aziraphale studies the smug expression on Crowley’s face, his eyebrows bouncing over his yellow eyes, challenging Aziraphale to disagree.

Aziraphale shakes his head and leans in to give his ridiculous serpent a kiss on the cheek.

“Whatever you say, dear.”


End file.
